


Superdiabolic

by bourbonandbitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Faust - Freeform, Heinrich Faust (mention), M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, but as a metaphor, the fourteenth century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:38:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonandbitter/pseuds/bourbonandbitter
Summary: Six hundred years ago, Aziraphale helped Heaven steal something from Crowley.  He's still not over it.





	Superdiabolic

"That's _not_ how it happened."

"I remember," Crowley insists.  "A little craftsmanship couldn't hurt, they said.  Easy enough to get a priest, they said.  Every bloody one in the ivory hellblessed tower has to be a priest.  Just get him at his lowest, find a way into his room, and offer him whatever he wants -- how hard could it possibly be?  Entire fourteenth fucking century.

"Even did up a contract," he continues.

"Yes, darling.  A lovely contract," knowing he sounds a bit guilty now.  "Shame you lost it."

"I didn't lose it!  If someone hadn't come in at the last blessed minute to distract me…"

"Yes, well, you know how it is.  Orders from Above and all."

"With great bloody roses!  Chased off my entire work crew!  And…" he trails off as though unwilling to remember the resolution of the whole situation.  The climax, if you will.

Aziraphale purses his lips, negotiates tricky conversational terrain.  "I am terribly sorry, my dear, but the contract wasn't precisely-"

Crowley makes an angry noise.  "Outright! Theft!" he hisses.  "Your lot stole him while you -- you distracted me!"

Aziraphale smiles disarmingly, although he can't put his heart into it.  The truth is twofold -- Crowley scares him when he gets like this, and he's right.  So he pushes down his feelings and aims to smooth things over.  With a bulldozer, if necessary.

"My dear, if you wanted me to buy lunch, you only had to say so rather than dredging this up again."

"A bloody century of work!  Ten decades, Aziraphale!  And they don't like failure Downstairs," he adds darkly.

The conversation, Aziraphale decides, has veered off from difficult terrain and is sprinting toward a cliff.

"I've apologised, Crowley, what more do you want me to say?"

"What I want you to-?  Admit what you _did_ , angel.  You've never once apologised for _that_."

"What I-"  Aziraphale feels his lips go numb.  Clears his suddenly-burning throat.  Guilt, yes, this would be authentic guilt he's feeling, the genuine article and very well deserved.  "I, ah, I helped my side steal from you the soul of Heinrich Faust-"

An agitated groan informs him he's said the wrong thing yet again.

"If you can't even admit to it, I don't know what I-"

"I seduced you," he says quickly, bravely, he thinks, heroic really to address it after six hundred years of strenuous avoidance.  "I knew how you feel and I, I used it against you.  Only I didn't, really," he plows on, "it was Above's idea; they didn't know about -- know about you.  And… us.  It was the roses, Crowley, they'd blessed the roses.  As a, a holy weapon."

He's afraid at first that Crowley will never find his voice, will get up and leave and never speak to him again.  But this, his greatest fear, has perhaps somehow been blown out of proportion over the centuries, because Crowley just screws up his face and spits out, "The roses?  A holy bloody weapon?"

"Ah, well, you see-"

"You lot just lobbed great bloody roses at our heads -- what in heaven was that supposed to do?"

And then he realises that Crowley has never understood how Above managed to cherry-pick the soul of Faust.  All this time, thinking -- what?  He scrambles for words.  "In… infect you.  With love," he adds before Crowley can ask.  "Erotic, erm, love."

The demon's question hangs in the air, and Aziraphale can see his tongue darting desperately between his lips.  "So you… you roofied me? With _love_?"

_Roofie?_ "Er, that was the idea, I believe."

He hasn't asked, not ever, not once, and it's not just because he thinks he knows.  And he's _damned_ if he's going to ask now, right bloody-

"Did it work?" he asks.

Crowley snorts, but all the harshness has gone out of him.  "Did it work?" he echoes.  "Of course it didn't bloody work."


End file.
